


He shuts his eyes and he prays

by jiminyneesham



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Gen, Uz: A Character Study, Vague References to Homophobia, journalists and their fear of POC doing well, lots of mentioned cricketers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiminyneesham/pseuds/jiminyneesham
Summary: He doesn’t want to be like them anyway. So he does his own thing, forges his own path





	He shuts his eyes and he prays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bananas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananas/gifts).



> For SLFE Prompt #19 - The journeys and struggles of Uzzy and/or Ish and/or Mo and/or Adil and/or other POC who play for white countries.

**Fajr**

Mornings vary, depending on how many times he’s hit the snooze button.

If he gets up for his first alarm he prays that when he turns on the TV for the first new bulletin of the day that there has been no more bloodshed, claiming to be in the name of Allah. In hope that there is no grainy footage of ‘Allahu akbar’ being screamed, followed by the camera shaking and then images of women and children, dusty, bloodied and crying. Because if there isn’t, it means his mum won’t be scared to go out alone to the supermarket and that her hands won't shake as she fixes her hijab into place. It means that his social media is more likely to be free of people calling him a terrorist. It means the ‘fuck off we’re full’ and ‘if you don’t like it, leave’ bumper stickers will hit him slightly softer than usual.

If he hits snooze, one, two, three times (sometimes it’s five and he can hear his mum clicking her tongue at him from another state), he watches the news first, sometimes it’s a mistake, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes he gets to see a panda rolling down a hill or a puppy doing something adorable. Most of the time it’s bombs in Syria, war in Iraq or shootings in the United States. Weather in Brisbane will be fine, a sunny top of 28 degrees. 

He reminds himself that those people do not speak for him. He shuts his eyes and he prays.

**Dhuhr**

In Test whites it’s easier to pretend he’s no different, long sleeves and no big brash branding across his chest. Or lack of big brash VB branding when he plays ODIs. The obnoxious Australian yellow given even more of a chance to be obnoxious with the branding missing.

He doesn’t want to be like them anyway. So he does his own thing, forges his own path. He dabs (disrespectful and unsportsmanlike behaviour) and he squeezes a teammates ass to the tune of the national anthem (cheeky and friendly), like some sort of homoerotic patriotism.

There isn’t anyone like him, not in the national set up. Sure they all like basketball and cricket, obviously. He’s named his dog after a basketballer and Kane named his after Kendrick Lamar, same same but different. 

Sometime he longs for someone who understands. He’s not asking for another version of himself, or for someone else to be judged on the colour of their skin and their beliefs, he wouldn’t wish that on anyone. He just wants someone who knows what it’s like. Just a little bit. He looks at England and he sees Mo and Adil who have each other, who support each other, who share ideals and beliefs.

This is why it’s important for him to be here, to persist, to endure. So the next kid like him, who comes to Australia with no English and a love of cricket, sees someone like themselves. So they see him.

The prayer room at the GABBA is empty on training days, so it doesn’t help with the isolation, but on match days it can be full, full of people like him so he always tries to get there mostly because it’s nice to look to his left and see someone like himself. He shuts his eyes and he prays.

**Asr**

Players that say they avoid the press written about themselves are liars. Not because they don’t actively try to avoid it, they do, it’s just inescapable. It’s on the front of the newspaper at a cafe. The bus driver has it opened to the sports section, Starcy’s face in all its grainy pixelated glory. It’s muted, but the headlines are scrolling on the TV in the hotel lobby. The news relaying the scores and outlining their individual successes and failures playing on radios in shopping centres and in taxis.

The point is, try as he might, the chatter about him being dropped always makes its way into his orbit. He tries not to worry about it, unless it comes directly from team management. The press are looking for a fall guy and he seems to be their man of choice. He doesn’t know why.

Okay, maybe he does know why. The little bit of that white-man narrative that has filtered into his brain tells him, that would be playing “racism card”, but it’s not as though this is something he can choose to be. He can’t choose that he was born in Pakistan or the colour of his skin. The truth of it is, there are people performing worse than him whose names never come up as ‘on the chopping block’. There are people whose positions are hanging on by one decent innings, no matter how long ago. There are people in their spots because there is no one else to take it and though they are failing, they are better than the next guy in line. Maybe he makes the conservative journalists owned by Murdoch press uncomfortable just by being himself. It doesn’t bother him, not really. He needn’t worry himself with the thoughts of people who were the kids that bullied him based on the colour of his skin. He’s doing what he always dreamed of and they are wishing they were athletes, but all they can do is exercise their fingers. The only thing they race for is a deadline.

He folds the newspaper and puts it into the recycling bin, then he shuts his eyes and he prays.

**Maghrib**

Day 5 of a Sydney Test always calls for something. Someone is celebrating and someone is commiserating. There is something bittersweet about celebrating when just the other side of the wall a team is commiserating and dissecting. He relishes these moments though, the elation of a test summer and the opportunity to meet with the opposition now as friends rather than the old enemy. He makes sure he shakes the hand of everyone, to make sure he doesn’t miss anyone he starts at the top of the order. Cook, Stoneman, Vince, Root. He takes a little extra time with Mo, his soft countenance and his easy smile and the other person staying sober while the rest of them room gradually gets groggier. Mark is there and alcohol or not he's the giddiest person in the room. He makes sure to spend the time with Mason Crane, congratulating him on his debut and on his maiden test wicket. The same way Cooky had taken the time with him in the same changerooms 7 years earlier.

Once the English clear out and the drinking continues, he excuses himself onto the balcony. Time to reflect. As a team, the performance of a lifetime and personally not the worst series either.. 11, 53, 20, 50, 17, 11, 171. His head on the chopping block after Adelaide, but it was Pete that eventually got the chop. He tried to repay the faith, got there in Perth, but fell short in Melbourne before finally getting the score he felt he’d been edging towards in Sydney. He think he’s lucky that Smith doesn’t want to bat at 3, it’s probably saved his neck.

They are all too far gone to notice him slipping out of the changeroom. He walks the halls, his footsteps echo where they would normally be muted by the hustle and bustle of matchday. He follows a familiar path. The room is dark so he has to fumble for the light. He smiles at the calm quietness. He shuts his eyes and he prays.

**Isha**

To his friends, Uz is a permanent designated driver. Always the mum friend, tucking people into taxis and making sure the worst of the bunch get to their hotel rooms without waking up the entire floor. Tonight, that’s Pat.

“You the real MVP, Uzzy,” Pat slurs. He isn’t carrying that much of Pat’s weight, even though Pat has an arm slung over his shoulder. He’s more of a guide, avoiding walls and doors and decorative pot plants. Pat is rooming next to him, which is good because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to get a room rumber out of the young quick.

“No, No, Uzzy! This one.” Before Usman can stop him Pat is knocking on a door only a few down from where he’s meant to be. It’s a fairly safe bet the room belongs to someone associated with the team. Player, coach, management, support staff all on the same floor. He just hopes it’s not Smith or Boof. It’s not, it’s a sleepy but not upset looking Mitch Marsh. He huffs out a laugh but reaches an arm out and Pat reaches for him, the weight lifting from Usman’s shoulders.

“Thanks Uz,” Mitch says, ushering Pat inside the room. The last thing Uz sees before the door shuts is Pat pressing a messy drunken kiss to Mitch’s cheek.

They’ve never said anything to him about it. It’s his own speculation. He knows what the Quran says about it, but he also knows what it’s like to be minority. What it’s like to be isolated because of things you can’t control. He knows what it’s like to lie about who you are to fit in. He understands why they might not chose to tell him if something was going on. Marriage equality in Australia is just about the only thing the Australian Liberal Party and Imams can agree on.

His friends are genuinely happy and there is nothing more he could want for them. Sometimes, family and friends who are more devout than him say things that he just can’t agree with. Hurtful, negative things that he can’t imagine any benevolent god condoning.

Before he gets into bed, he shuts his eyes and he prays.

**Qiyam**

Sometimes when he can’t sleep he does it. When the mattress is too firm and the pillows too soft. Or there is a party with a thumping baseline next door. Or Rachel is pressed slightly too close and he’s too warm in the sticky Brisbane heat. Or when the evening news bulletin aired a story about a mosque being bombed. Or when the United Patriots front are dominating the news spewing hatred and promoting the ways of Hitler. Or Pauline Hanson is showing up to parliament in a Burqa to make some kind of fucked up point.

So when he lays awake, mind racing, he takes a deep breath and stands up.

Then.

He shuts his eyes and he prays.

**Author's Note:**

> If you were interested in reading something written by Uz himself, you can find his story here -[Racism & the big change](https://www.playersvoice.com.au/usman-khawaja-racism-and-the-big-change/#lkVVg1MoHirIEjd8.97)


End file.
